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COURAGE! 




RICHARD MANSFIELD 2nd 

Born April 3, 1898, at Rye, New York 

Died August 3, 1918, at San Antonio, Texas 



COURAGE ! 
By 



RICHARD MANSFIELD, 2nd 




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KOft-lN 

feeQori 

A-SEOyl's 
EKFESI?' 




We'll change the world together — " 



MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK 






Copyright, 1918 
Moffat, Yard and Company 



* * 



PEG -2 1918 
©CI.A506776 



RICHARD MANSFIELD 2nd 

The son of genius seldom inherits it. But in 
Richard Mansfield 2nd the stars pointed to an ex- 
ception. Young as he was, he had not only given 
promise of artistic distinction but to a considerable 
degree and in several fields had attained it. As an 
actor, at school and elsewhere, he had already ex- 
hibited much of his father's peculiar vigor and grace. 
As a writer, he had begun a novel and a play and 
had planned and partly written a collection of poems 
about Barakeesh. 

For the journey to Barakeesh, this city of his 
dreams, he was always alert ; and for himself and 
his comrades his ardor was like a magical carpet. 
O. Henry conceived of a caliph in disguise wander- 
ing through the ways of Manhattan. Such was 
Richard when he would come from Barakeesh to 
New York, save that the disguise could never long 
conceal his buoyant young pomp. And yet the 
poems he left are not so much of Barakeesh as of 
New London and its countryside, not so much of 
his dreams as of the real people he loved — and 
finally of the war's abrupt call to his heart. And 
they remain, a bright token of his impetuous life, 



distinguished from some of the more consciously 
literary poems of other soldier poets by their dram- 
atic directness, with just enough technical knowl- 
edge, by their simple human gesture, their quick 
fervor of boyhood, their impatient demand that life 
be a sure swift happy thing. 

After rejections and discouragements on account 
of his health, Mansfield succeeded in joining the 
American army, and as a private in the Aviation 
Signal Corps died at nineteen. 

In preparing this volume from the scattered 
material he left, I have had the help of his mother 
and of two poets, his friend, Anna Hempstead 
Branch, and his teacher, Haniel Long ; and, as near- 
ly as we could, we have selected and arranged the 
poems as if he were doing it and we only advising. 

WITTER BYNNER. 



CONTENTS 

To Any Old Critic ix 

POEMS OF BARAKEESH 

An Explanation 1 

Dreams 2 

A Dream of Courage 3 

The Star Maiden 4 

A Lament for Arcady 5 

The Lantern Bearer 7 

The Little Bronze God 9 

Impromptu 10 

The Lone Faun 11 

Pan and the Herdboy 13 

Jack Harley, Respectable 15 

A Dreadful Heritage 18 

The Thirteenth Poem 19 

Evening 21 

On A Hill-Top 22 

The Lost Playmate 23 

I Waited for My Beloved 25 

Hildreth Returns 26 

From a Window 27 

Night of Springtide 28 

Evening and Morning 29 

A Wind 30 

A Lantern in Barakeesh 31 



Valse Triste . . 32 

Lament 34 

Gold Flame 35 

The Refugee 36 

Two Sad Grey Eyes 37 

The First Kiss 38 

Away to New England 39 

POEMS OF THE WAR 

At Dinner in the Club with Some Pals 43 

The Face in the Water 45 

Song of the Artists 47 

Memories 50 

He Is Dead, My Beloved ! 51 

The Service Flag 52 

They Would Not Have Him 54 

A Song of Vengeance . . 56 

Someday . 59 

To the Morning-Sunrise 61 

If You Will Take This Life 63 

After the War 64 

For King and Country 65 

The Star 67 



TO ANY OLD CRITIC 



So life with all its struggles is a sham 

And not worth living, all the world's a stage 

On which we play our gloomy parts. 

We laugh futilely, love futilely, futilely rage. 

You tell me that, do you? You sneer at life. 

You sneer at maids in love or somber married men, 

You without love enough to take a wife. 

Life is not, cannot be what you say. 

The things you cynically rail at, 

None of them, none of them pass away, 

For I know that the very things that you decry 

Are most of them just the things I love; 

And when I hear you, head in air, mournfully sigh, 

Why, I laugh at your sighs — that's all. 



IX 



POEMS 

OF 

BARAKEESH 



AN EXPLANATION 

Why do I never reveal my real self to you, oh you 

people? 
You ask me that — 

You, who have never shown me your real selves! 
If I were to go about this place, 
Preaching my gospel of art and beauty, 
Of love and hope and faith, 
You would think me mad. 
Yet 

When the sun goes down in Barakeesh 
Gilding with unbelievable beauty 
Each dome, each spire and minaret, 
I would like to throw open all its seven gates 
And let you in . . . 



DREAMS 

Dreams I weave come singing round me, 
Dreams of Barakeesh, the golden, 
Dreams of that far-distant city 
Where the naked boys run races, 
Where the poets sing wild ditties, 
Where the eagle kills the rabbit 
And the augur learns its meaning . 

Dreams I weave come singing round me. 



A DREAM OF COURAGE 

I thought — I dreamed — and in my strange deep 

sleep, 
An angel came to me and told me of a maid 
Who in a garden far a watch did keep 
For the one man who never was afraid. 
And lo, I rose and turned to him and said: 
"I am that man. Lead on — Is the maid fair?" 
The angel answered: "Feared you, were you dead?" 
"No," murmured I. "God's punishment to bear, 
Is right. I've sinned and yet He will forgive." 
The angel smiled, "And feared you never me?" 
"No!" shouted I, "In sorrow we all live. 
Some more, some less. And when I die, I go 
Out of this world into a brighter one." 
Then, said the angel, "Feared you ever pain?" 
"No," told I him, — "What use to scream or run? 
In God's hands we all are. His is the greater gain." 
Methought I saw within his eye a tear. 
The angel turned and these five words he spoke, 
With down-cast eyes: "And feared you ever fear?" 
I could not answer, crying — I awoke ! 



THE STAR MAIDEN 

Gently she smiled on me 
And I knew wonder, 

She that they could not see, 
They so far under . . . 

Where is the star I found 

Fallen at even? 
Glimmering in the ground 

One out of seven . . . 



A LAMENT FOR ARCADY 
To W. B. 

Oh, that I were in Arcady — in Arcady, in Arcady 

Where leaves are green and hearts are light 

And one is ever gay and free 

And the moon is merry all the night! 

But I am not in Arcady — dear Arcady — your 

Arcady, 
Along whose sweet elm-bordered lanes 
The poet and Celia one could see. 
With what loved pleasures and dear pains 
You passed the time in Arcady — fair Arcady — 

your Arcady! 
But Grenstone is alas, too far 
For the poor tired feet of me. 
Like some pure, distant, hopeless star, 
'Tis further yet from Arcady. 
I know the way to Barakeesh with minarets that 

gleam all gold. 
Its seven gates I nightly pass, 
And there my loved one I enfold. 
In Barakeesh there is no grass 
But only sands and rocks and palms, 



Where fitful storms and cold and heat 

Are pressed by still more fitful calms. 

And there is grass in Arcady — green grass — wet 

grass in Arcady. 
The walls are grey in Arcady, 
In Barakeesh the walls are white, 
But Barakeesh belongs to me 
And camels there begin their flight. 
Its seven gates are open wide — 
To Barakeesh I'll be your guide . . . 
Well though I love your Arcady. 



THE LANTERN BEARER 

Darkness in Barakeesh 

And a lantern that swings in the wind, 

Only my little Bronze God can see 

Through the lantern bearer's mind. 

Though they say that the priests in the mosque 

declare 
That Allah is always kind, 
The lantern bearer at sunset prayed 
On the mosque's rug strewn floor 
And he wept and cast dust on his head 
Ere he passed through the open door, 
And it seemed that a voice within him cried, 
"Allah, no more! no more! 
Only without these great grey walls 
Where the lizards sleep all day 
And the caravans pass in the evening 
Towards Bagdad, the always gay, 
Is the slender wraith of a certain maid 
Whose body is far away . . ." 
In the Governor's palace there is a court 
Called the Court of the Setting Sun 
In that court are many flowers 
And there faint waters run, 
And thither the Governor goes to rest 



When his day of toil is done. 

Why should the lantern bearer think 

Of that flower-circled square? 

He has never seen the ruler's court, 

With its ornaments a-flare, 

For a hundred guardian blackamoors 

Tell him he may not dare. 



I truly know that the bearer sighed, 

For the Bronze God told me so. 

The night he sighed, at shoulder arms 

I was pacing to and fro. 

But the little God told me the story 

And that's how I came to know 

That Nourime, the Governor's daughter, 

Slept with a red, red rose, 

And that Muskai, the lantern bearer, 

Died of a thousand blows. 

But what meaning the rose and his death had, 

Only the Bronze God knows. 



THE LITTLE BRONZE GOD 

In distant Barakeesh by the desert, twilight is fall- 
ing. 
In distant Barakeesh by the desert, someone is 
calling. 
In the dusk the passionate perfumed jasmine dream- 
ily breathes 
Midst the slow faint ensorcelling flutter of leaves. 

In distant Barakeesh where the caravans pass, is a 
wall where the jasmine grows; 
Set into that perfumed wall is a window that only 
the Bronze God knows. 
As the caravans grumble and grunt on the road to 
Istamboul, 
The night wind blows on the latticed wall to keep 
the jasmine cool. 

There's a face that only the Bronze God knows, a 
face at the window there; 
No one save the little Bronze God knows if the 
face be fair, 
What songs are sung under that window in the soft 
and well-starred night, 
What hand stretches forth to the lovely face that 
shines in blue moonlight. 



IMPROMPTU 

Who is the Lady Micomicona? 

And is she very fair? 
All day long she follows me, 

I feel her everywhere. 

She terrifies me, for I hear 
She has her hounds in leash ! 

Allah be praised it is not far 
From here to Barakeesh! 



10 



THE LONE FAUN 

Grey morn and half veiled mist 

From the valley rise . . . 

Something move in the bushes . . . Hist! 

What is that that sighs? 

Cloud-lifting, weary and purple, 

The mist rises over the hill, 

Someone . . . sure . . . moved in the 

murkle ; 
Someone has drunk by the rill. 
Who is it danced in the morning's dew? 
What is that pounding of feet 
In the brush . . . and that call strange and new? 
But, oh! oh! so clear and sweet? 
Something tickles all down my spine, 
And I tremble with beautiful awe. 
The branches life up for a sign — 
Some crows drift away, crying "Caw." 
Faun . . . Faun ... I know you now for 

sure. 
You have come back to stay, 
Could not resist the magical lure 
Of the hills ... at the break o' day. 
Say, Faun, are there more 
Of your friends with the prancing hoofs? — 
Those who never passed through a door 



11 



Nor who slept beneath roofs 

Save the blue arched roof of the sky? 

If there are, oh, Faun — call them back. 

What is that? Did I hear a sigh? 

So soft ... so faint . . . Oh! alack! 

Are you alone, then? No answer . . . He's 

gone. 
But he understood well, I think . . . See, 
He has left an answer — Oak, ash and thorn! 
Meaning just . . . "I'll come back — Wait for 

me. 



12 



PAN AND THE HERDBOY 

The hills were blue and veiled with mist, 
There was no wind at all. 

I had met by chance — by chance had kissed — 
By chance had learned the call . . . 

The strange clear call that sounds at eve 
Or on Walpurgis night, 
And at its sound the herdsmen leave 
Their flocks in trembling flight. 

The hills were tall and very blue, 
The fields were swathed in fog. 
I'd knowledge of things I never knew 
As I called above the bog. 

For with the breath of spring and the passional 

white hot flame, 
Out of the purple mist, laughing, breathless, sweet 

she came. 
And the old god's power was in me, and I spake the 

magic runes 
And, straightway, bog and hill and field awoke with 

wondrous tunes. 
Pan's pipes, they chuckled sweetly, and I kissed her 

mouth and eyes, 



13 



While the music poured from out the hills, and oh 

but it was wise, 
Wise with the wisdom of godhood and strange with 

ancient youth, 
It was old as the hills it came from and full of the 

hill's own truth. 
But the girl in my arms was trembling and her eyes 

were full of tears, 
For the passional dream-tone music rang piteous in 

her ears. 
"Oh gods are not always happy," the music seemed 

to cry, 
"Though they know not either right nor wrong, 

they sometimes wish to die. 
"For the goblins all have hidden and the lepre- 
chauns are fled 
"And for lack of mortal loyalty the pixies now are 

dead. 
"Only a few pale fairies dance in the twilight hours, 
"Only a leprechaun or two wake mid the purple 

flowers. 
"But Pan still pipes in the heather" . . . then 

I led the maid away, 
For it is not good to be with a girl mid the hills at 

the close of day, 
When Pan, he mourns in the purple hills, it is not 

right to stay. 



14 



JACK HARLEY, RESPECTABLE 

The dim little shadows creep timidly out of cor- 
ners, 

The dim little shadows creep timidly back into cor- 
ners, 

They shift and tremble and quiver — 

They are cowardly, terrified, fearstricken, timorous 
shadows, 

They are the souls of respectable men. 



Jack Harley was, when a youth of eighteen sum- 
mers, 
Young, gay, good-lucking, and the life 
Of his small home town. In fact once a party of 

mummers 
Playing, at the opera house, some tale of strife, 
Some melodrama, urged him to join their cast, 
Saying that as the manager of a New England farm 
He was wasted. But he refused. 'He wasn't fast 
Enough,' he told them. As he grew older he knew 

no harm 
Nor hate towards man or woman. Later his parents 

died, 
One soon after the other. And Jack was sad 
And grieved quite properly . . . But he some- 
times sighed, 



15 



"Oh for some youth, some life ! Am I a cad 

To wish for all these things just when they are 

dead?" 
He did not know. He only knew he wanted youth, 
And lights, laughter, and frolic. To his friends he 

said, 
"I'm rusting off here, friends, and that's the truth." 
His neighbors said : "Now Jack, don't you be crazy. 
Boy, you stay right here and mind your dad's old 

place. 
May be it's just because you're so almighty lazy. 
Go get a wife. Sue Haskins has a pretty face. 
And she can cook and sew, and knit as well." 
Poor Jack . . . He listened to them and he 

wasted time 
In his attention to the things they'd tell. 
They said it was a gosh almighty crime 
He didn't settle down. He was too young 
And sensitive to branch out, change his ways. 
The dreadful roots of custom round him clung 
And so, in time — in less than sixty days — 
He popped the question. Sue, she answered yes. 
And they were married. And he worked the farm 
Year in, year out. Though sometimes he'd confess 
That the city still held for him its old time charm, 
Yet he had no time. Sue, she had babies four. 
The farm demanded work. And so he paid sadly 
His price for peace. Drudgery, work and then more 



16 



Rust and stagnation. Oh, he would very gladly 

Pay his dime to see some cheap poor show! 

So he grew older, worn, tired . . . The price 

was paid 
In full. One day . . . They told Sue he would 

soon go. 
She told the folks his last words were ... "I 

was afraid." 



The dim little shadows creep timidly out of corners, 

The dim little shadows creep timidly back into cor- 
ners, 

They shift and tremble and quiver — 

They are cowardly, terrified, fearstricken, timorous 
shadows, 

They are the souls of respectable men. 



17 



A DREADFUL HERITAGE 

It was there ... It was with him again. 
It had a habit of turning up at odd moments 
When he did not want it. 
He was a friend of mine. It made him ill 
And finally killed him. Before he died, 
He called me to him and told me about It. 
He left It to me. I thought I could manage It. 
So when he passed into the grey beyond, 
I took It in charge. 

My God! I did not know . . . I did not know. 
Every night It sits on the edge of my bed 
And talks to me. 

It talks of Economics and Philosophy. 
It talks of Law and Ethics. 
It talks of Machinery and Literature. 
It talks of the Uplift of the Drama. 
It talks of pretty girls. 

I don't mind when it talks of other things . . . 
But 

When it talks about the pretty girls 
I draw the line. They say that I am mad. 
I don't care. Perhaps I am. It follows me every- 
where. 
My friend left me a dreadful heritage. 



18 



THE THIRTEENTH POEM 
IN BERMUDA 

Twelve poems have I written, since I have been 
here, 
And all of them have been more or less about 
love; 
Love of a girl, love of life, love of anything sacred 
or dear. 
Love of the glorious earth beneath, the holy sky 
above. 
But this, the thirteenth poem I have written on this 
Isle, 
Shall be a poem of the most bitter hate : 
Hate of fools, hate of silly persons who talk a long 
while 
About nothing in particular, or persons who are 
always late; 
Hate of tall men who talk loudly of their strength, 
Of charming women who talk loudly of their 
weakness ; 
Hatred of girls who wear gowns of great length, 
Hatred of ministers who make capital of meek- 
ness. 
Hate of liars who do not know how to lie; 



19 



Especially hate of children who behave them- 
selves at tea; 
Hatred of men who do not know how to die; 
Hatred of writers who have not the strength to 
see; 
Hate of badly-cooked, dirty, or ill-smelling food; 
Hate of loneliness caused by stern convention's 
creed ; 
Hatred of people who positively enjoy being good ; 
Hatred of women, thin, cheerless, and full of 
greed ; 
Hate of anything or anyone that gets in my way ; 
Hate of someone wise or gloomy when I would 
be gay; 
Hate of a pretty girl who hasn't anything to say ; 
And, last of all, hate of an ill-spent day. 



20 



EVENING 

The lingering shadows fall. Soon comes the night, 

The hills, the valleys, fade from out my sight, 

And man turns home again. 

A little gentle wind makes music strange. 

Upon the fields the sunset colors change. 

I hear a sweet refrain. 

On earth peace is. In heaven quiet too. 

The little stars peep from the vault of blue ; 

And my heart wanders home 

As evening comes, as day its parting takes. 

The moonlight silvers over streams and lakes. 

I smell the scented loam. 

Then I arise and turn and wend my way 

Musing on that sweet bygone day 

Which never will return. It makes me cry . . . 

And yet another comes — in which — to try. 



21 



ON A HILL-TOP 

You were a child and I was a child 

On the hill top brown and bare, 
Your hair was blown and your eyes were wild 

As we talked on the hilltop there. 

You were a child and I was a child 
Watching the smoke-wreaths drift, 

You gave me your heart on that windswept hill, 
Though I had not begged the gift. 

You were a child and I was a child 

And the spring was in our veins, 
The fire leapt from the valley dim 

To burn our bridle reins. 

You were a child and I was a child 

Watching the smoke arise . . . 
It drifted over the hilltop's brim 

Into the somber skies. 

Yes, we were children together 

Watching the smoke-wreaths drift, 

And I gave back your heart on the hilltop . . , 
Would God I had kept the gift. 



22 



THE LOST PLAYMATE 

We played together, you and I, on the hills 

By the blue, blue sea; 
We ran down the slopes, laughing together, 

You were dear to me. 
I can still remember your exquisite laugh, 

How you were gay; 
Your face, with cameo clearness, comes before me, 

And all that day 
You and I, we frolicked side by side. 

I kissed your dear pale cheek. 
You laughed . . . and kissed me back. 

Then we played hide and seek, 
You were to hide, and I was to find you ; 

So I closed my eyes, 
Counted five hundred by tens, so impatient I was, 
and then I rose 

Beneath the star-flecked skies 
To seek you ... I knew I'd keep you when I 
found you. 

So I looked everywhere. 
The night was very calm and mild, 

Hardly a breath of air 
Stirred, and yet I felt a vague sort of terror 

Steal into my heart; 



23 



I called you, and when the sound of my voice came 
back to me, 
It made me start 
With fear ... I looked for you a long, long 
time — 
I have not found you yet ; 
But you kissed my lips and held me close to you, 

I never shall forget . . . 
And I know that some day not yet to be, in the 
future, 
I shall see you by my side 
Again. And, oh, my dear, lost gladsome playmate, 
This time you will not hide. 



24 



I WAITED FOR MY BELOVED 



s^ 



I waited for my beloved in the dew of the early 

morning, and from the door of my cottage I 

could hear a thrush . . . 
I waited for my beloved in the heat of noon, and 

from outside my latticed window a shrill cicada 

called . . . 
I waited for my beloved in the cool of the early 

evening, and from the dusk outside I heard some 

dog a-howling . . . 
I waited for my beloved in the dead dark midnight, 

and from the sky above I saw a star fall . . . 
And my beloved came to me . . . 



25 



HILDRETH RETURNS 

All I'd ever give you, 

All I could bestow 
Yours is for the asking 

That I'm sure you know. 

Trees are fair in summer, 
Winter brings them pain; 

Summer's when you're near me, 
When you're back again. 



26 



FROM A WINDOW 

Silently the shadows fall, 

The moonlight glimmers on the wall . . . 

"Ah, come to me," I hear you call, 

My own true love. 
Your mouth is pressed soft against mine, 
Your kisses taste like scented wine, 
Our love is like a strengthening vine, 

My dearest one. 
My eyes are filled with unshed tears . . 
What though life changes with the years, 
Why talk of useless hopes or fears, 

My sweet wild rose? 
So thus my heart is yours to keep; 
The hill of life is high and steep, 
Love's depths are wonderful and deep. 
You laugh — and then you fain would weep. 
To-night within my arms you sleep, 

My own sweet maid. 



27 



NIGHT OF SPRINGTIDE 

The moonlight filters o'er the dark, dark grass, 

Across the light strange shadows drift and pass. 

I feel the call of night within me rise 

And, thinking, dreaming, shed all earthly ties. 

A voice I hear — a song divine outpours 

In mystic glory — into the night it soars. 

My lips tremble, tears stand, then roll 

Down my cheeks. Sorrow takes toll. 

Then the song changes. Light and free, 

It throbs a gay clear message unto me. 

And then the voice is mute and still. 

The moon goes slowly down behind the hill. 

Amid the wood rustles a little breeze . . . 

Oh, for a thousand, thousand nights like these ! 



28 



EVENING AND MORNING 

The shadows deepen . . . 

The poplars sigh as a wind passes through, 

The world grows darker . . . 

After sunset the sky turns a deeper blue, 

A faint white mist comes creeping up from the 

sea, 
Light begin to show here and there, 
I can hear the birds settling to rest at the top of 

the old pine tree, 
There is a gathering coolness in the air . . . 
Then two soft hands in mine as you return to me. 

A shifting light on my doorstep . . . 
The gentle murmur of waves on the sandy beach, 
The twitter of birds in the branches . . . 
Blue water, unclouded heaven as far as the eye 

can reach, 
Here and there the delicate sail of a fishing smack 

shows, 
The gulls scream over the water's unbroken blue, 
For there's scarcely a ripple, so soft the wind 

blows . . . 
And I turn from my doorstep to breakfast and 

vou. 



29 



A WIND 

My thoughts of you are beautiful and pure. 

What else, of you, could any thinking be? 

A whispering wind that brings me perfect peace . . . 

My will grows stronger, masterful and sure, 

My love for you is like a cedar tree. 

Long years I've sought you like a golden fleece. 

The earth, the sky, the ocean, each and all 
Assist my love and show me yours in turn. 
There is a bird that sings to me each day, 
His voice, though harsher, gives your own sweet 

call, 
And helps to soothe and ease my passion's burn . . . 
You have not gone away 



30 



A LANTERN IN BARAKEESH 

There's a golden light in the west to-night 

Brighter than ever before, 

There's a warm breeze out of the south tonight 

Sweeping my cottage door; 

And Hildreth sends me a kiss to-night, 

So I send her back one more. 

There's a window that waits unclosed to-night 
In a home with a strange dear name, 
Yes, a latticed window gleams to-night 
For one who seldom came, 
And a lantern in Barakeesh shines to-night 
With a pale exultant flame. 

I am all alone in my room to-night 

And a cold wind moans outside, 

I shall dream of Hildreth's arms to-night 

And think not of time nor tide, 

Yet I know when I dreamed of her last night — 

In the darkness someone sighed. 



31 



VALSE TRISTE 

From a Composition by Ralph Lawton 

The music rises . . . 

The diners pause in eating, 

Faintly the violins begin their wail, 

The waltz seems to call out a greeting to them, 

The music tells them a well-known tale. 

Only among the diners, who rising, begin to dance, 

Are two apart from the rest . . . one a man, 

dark, strong and tall 
The other a woman, lovely, slender, and pale, at 

whom the people glance 
As they dip and sway to the waltz's magic call. 
She unwilling yet forced by herself, is led to the 

polished floor. 
He bends over her, passionate, devouring, holding 

her tight. 
She unresisting succumbs to the spell of another 

hectic eve. 
They hover and turn and swirl in the waltz's dreamy 

night. 
Her eyes are clouded with other thoughts, yet the 

floor she cannot leave. 
Later after more wine has been drunk and other 

dances danced, 



32 



He will call his carriage and help her in and drive 

off gloomily, 
Watching the slow rise and fall of her breasts by 

one gleaming jewel enhanced, 
Then at the door of his house he will kiss her lips 

and feel her body sway . . . 
And, knowing the night is over, she will hate the 

inevitable end — 
Remembering other evenings like this one, and 

other mornings just a gray, 
As her hair falls about her shoulders and he feels 

her body sway. 



33 



LAMENT 

In the silver moonlight a jewel's gleaming 
By the rippling fountain someone's dreaming, 
The wind through the tall, tall tree is sighing, 
By the fountain a love is slowly dying. 

In the silver moonlight a heart is breaking, 
By the rippling fountain a wound is aching, 
On the hills a shepherd's voice is calling, 
In the black night a star is falling. 



34 



GOLD FLAME 

Gold flame lifting across a sullen sea, 

Red lightning-gleams across a shuddering sky, 

A rush of wind bending the tallest tree, 
And no one knows the reason — only I. 

Where have you been this long eternal while? 

What did you do after you left the town? 
What were your thoughts, girl with the strange 
dark smile? 

With gold-lit hair, grey eyes and ragged gown. 

We did not know what thoughts had filled your 
head. 

We never knew the man whose lips you kissed. 
We did not know if you were quick or dead. 

We only knew one thing — that you were missed. 

Now you are back. And I have seen you stand 
On the far downs close by the sea, and cry, 

Your white face hidden in your trembling hand, 
And no one knows the reason — only I. 



35 



THE REFUGEE 

There is a girl called Ruth 
In whose heart beauty lives 

And in whose sad eyes truth 
Gleams out and comfort gives. 

To Barakeesh she came 
Seeking a different land, 

For in her soul a flame 

Burned till she could not stand — 

She could not stand alone ; 

To Barakeesh she fled . . . 
The world cannot atone 

For all the things it said. 

The world is harsh and stern, 

It cannot, will not see 
That the fair gentle fern 

Is mighty as the tree. 

And so it cuts and hacks, 

Across the cup of tea, 
It does not know it lacks 

A sort of purity. 



36 



TWO SAD GREY EYES 

Two sad grey eyes that sought for strength and aid, 
That sheen of golden hair . . . the face so pale, 
Quiet and still the form. Poor gentle slender 

maid . . . 
And are the grey eyes seeking in some vale 
For one who said, ah, many a sweet wild thing? 
Is she waiting to meet him in some field, 
Mid pale strange flowers where the dead birds sing? 
And when she finds him — will the grey eyes yield 
Their newborn, deathborn, passion, as on that day 
To him who kissed and, laughing, rode away? 



37 



THE FIRST KISS 

You will remember, no doubt, having once been 
young, the day when first you kissed her. You 
were taking her home, or you were calling on her, 
or you met her accidentally — it does not matter how. 

Suddenly, a wild, sweet, strange feeling stole 
through your whole body and throbbed in your 
veins. Some mystic voice seemed to murmur subtly 
in your ear : "Do it now . . . now . . . now !" And 
just as suddenly you found your arms about her 
waist and her eyes gazing steadfastly into yours. 
You will remember that there was a queer, little 
smile in the corner of her lips. There . . . with the 
bewilderment of that which knows no awakening 
. . . your lips met . . . your souls for one blissful, 
never-to-be-forgotten moment crashed together, and 
you were in heaven. The next moment she had 
escaped from you . . . had fled . . . had run into 
the house. You walked home with your blood on 
fire and your heart singing a delicious song of 
triumph. . . . And you dreamed of her all night 
long. 



38 



AWAY TO NEW ENGLAND 

I am coming back. I am coming back 
Once more to those meadows and fields. 

I will return to that well-worn track, 
To all that the country yields. 

And my heart is full of hope most high 
That the maid who waits at the end, 

Must feel my body drawing nigh 
And knows that myself I send. 

Yet Barakeesh is not so far 

As her elm-bordered street, 
And the beauty of a distant star 

Is less than when we meet. 



39 



POEMS 
OF 
THE 
WAR 



AT DINNER IN THE CLUB WITH 
SOME PALS 

The orchestra is playing the first and second move- 
ments 

Of the Ballet Egyptien. It makes me yearn for 
Barakeesh. 

Barakeesh ! Barakeesh ! How I long for you. 

You do not know about the war. 

Little you care for Russia's attitude. 

You know nothing of the Alpine battles. 

Little you care for the blood and pain of Flanders. 

And I doubt whether the men of Britain, 

Driving toward Bagdad, 

Have ever come within thinking distance 

Of your turreted walls, and huge well-guarded 
gates. 

Yet — in an English lane, 

There is a cottage 

And in it an old woman 

With a young girl beside her 

Weeping before a faded photograph of a cheery 
youth 

In the uniform of a sergeant in the Yorkshires. 



43 



And I— who have felt Nourime's lip on mine, 

Long to be where I can bring 

Some comfort to that couple 

In the English cottage, 

And the place is not in Barakeesh, 

No — it is elsewhere — 

In a redoubt on the Marne. 



44 



THE FACE IN THE WATER 

The north wind is blowing 

And so I am sighing, 
So many are going 

So many are dying. 

The world is bewildered, 

Torn and distracted, 
Dazed and befuddled, 

By long war protracted. 

Colder and colder 

The icicles shiver, 
And older and older 

Grows the corpse by the river. 

Eyes that spoke clearly, 
Lips that so beckoned, 

She we loved dearly . . . 
Little we reckoned. 

Noises and crying, 

A scream from her chamber, 
A grey soldier lying, 

Ah, well we remember. 



45 



An officer takes her, 

Aided by others, 
An ague shakes her, 

Where are their mothers? 

Swift flows the river 
Running so cleanly, 

Lo! the stream is the giver, 
She did not die meanly. 

And yet they are weeping . 

The water runs over 
Where she is sleeping, 

The stream is her lover, 

Her heart is not beating 
As once it did strongly, 

But it is not greeting 
A grey lover wrongly. 



46 



SONG OF THE ARTISTS 

It is no longer the Latin Quarter, 

It is no longer those happy faces, 

Seen through a pale blue haze — 

Marie, a cigarette held delicately in her slender 

fingers, 
Dorothy smiling at a bottle of Chianti, 
And Jack, my chum, holding forth on the subject 

of Sarah, the Divine. 
It is no longer the Latin Quarter — 
It is no longer those happy faces. 



We felt something surge within us 

And we leapt forth to the fray. 
We left our books and paintings 

To laugh at the German Day. 
We left our sculpture and drawings, 

Our plays and poems and tales, 
To fight in a dirty uniform 

And to brave the winter gales. 

We felt that the blood of our brothers, 

Brothers and sisters too, 
Called us away from our studios 

To prove our hearts were true. 



47 



Deep from the trenches of Flanders 

There sounds a ringing call, 
"A bas les Boches ! Come forward !" 

We came and gave our all. 

Oh, the fires are lit on the Flanders plains 

And the star-shells streak the sky. 
Only those who have seen them know 

How the artists have learned to die — 
For the smoke lifts grey o'er the Flanders plains 

And the ground is streaked with red. 
Little did we, who were as gods, 

Think of lying in such a bed. 

Many of us are fallen; 

We are cold, and starved and mad — 
We have left our work and pleasures 

But we've given all we had. 
And the Hun, from out his dugout, 

Seeing our torn blue line, 
Seeing those strange, wild faces, 

Yearns for his friendly Rhine. 

We have buried our comrades, one by one, 

We are wounded, sick and thin — 
Yet, some fool on a battered soap-box 

Mouths that it was a sin: 
Let him wear a khaki overcoat, 



48 



Put him in the line of fire, 
Let him hear the yell of the mealy-mouthed Hun- 
And he'll know that he stood a liar. 

They talk of peace and they talk of love 

And they seek to end the war — 
But the artists laugh a grim, short laugh 

And load their guns once more. 
When the fires are lit on the Flanders plains 

And the star-shells streak the sky — 
Go tell your friend on the city street 

Where the artists' bodies lie. 



It is no longer the Latin Quarter, 
It is no longer those pale, blue faces 
Seen through a pale blue haze. 

Marie is playing somewhere for the Red Cross. 
Sari has lost a lover and knits sweaters. 
Jack, my chum, is flying at the front — for France- 
It is no longer the Latin Quarter. 
It is no longer those happy faces. 



49 



MEMORIES 

Written upon hearing of the death of his best friend, Lieutenant 
Jack Wright, a feoy of 18, toho fell in an aeroplane accident in France, 

It's a face in the crowd as you're passing by ; 
It's the turn of a head that will catch your eye; 
It's a gay refrain that will make you sigh, 
Memories — memories — we all must die. 

The hotel lobby is gold and red, 
And you catch yourself thinking of things he said, 
And a girl comes near, with a turn of her head — 
He'd have liked her, too, — but he is dead. 

So the flowers will grow by his grave some day, 
And the world goes on with its work and play ; 
But I catch myself humming a song that's gay. 
It's how he would like to have died — that way! 



50 



HE IS DEAD MY BELOVED! 

Put it behind you — all this regretting, 
The deed is done — there's no need to weep, 
Cease, I beg of you, cease this fretting, 
Only calm yourself and rest and sleep. 

I know as well as they what he was to you — 
Warm and desiring, passionate, proud, 
Standing up boldly, honest and true to you, 
Yet holding himself just aloof from the crowd. 

Say would he wish it thus, seeing you weeping? 
If your tears brought him back, then I'd let you 

weep on. 
Sleep and perchance he'll return to you sleeping — 
Dreams often bring to you one who is gone. 

Death's not so fearful to part you asunder, 
Woman is weak but man's not more strong. 
Death's just a perfect and beautiful wonder, 
So cry not, weep not, for weeping is wrong. 

Raise yourself then and go on with your work, 
That is the duty you cannot gainsay, 
The brave are the sunny, it's weaklings that shirk . . . 
Yours be the laurel wreath — his be the bay ! 



51 



THE SERVICE FLAG 

A square of white on a square of red — a square 
of white — stainless white — on a square of flaming 
scarlet — and in the center a blue star. 

They hang on flagstaffs. They adorn hotel lob- 
bies. They wave from shop windows. They arc 
flaunted from the porches of private houses. Thej 
are the Service Flags! 

Happy the home that possesses one. Sorry the 
day when the men of the house do not earn the 
houses' right to flaunt the emblem. And joyous the 
thoughts of the youths and men who, returning 
behold the symbol of their sacrifice. 

He was a youth of some one and twenty sum- 
mers. His face was a dingy mottled grey. He 
liked to shoot craps on the Court House steps anc 
leer at the girls from the threshold of Harris' Drug 
Store — then the draft got him. 

A square of white on a square of red, and in the 
center a blue star. It hung lazily, proudly — this 
new flag, from an improvised flagstaff, in front oi 
the youth's mean little house, in a mean little stred 
— his sister learned to speak of "my brother in the 
Army." 

It was a dirty trench in front of a wire entangle 
ment in France. All day long the German guns hac 



52 



pounded the Yankee line. All day long their shells 
had shrieked and hovered over the heads of the 
troops in khaki, and had searched their trenches, 
the barrage! 

Over the top with the best o' luck and give them 
Hell! An officer raises his cane. With twelve 
hundred other figures, the youth leaps forward. 
Yells, shots, smoke, pandemonium! They are 
across — they are there! They have gained the 
enemy trench. 

They buried the youth at dawn in a little grave 
behind the lines, and they spoke in lowered tones 
of the manner in which he had captured the Ger- 
man colors, sheathed almost indistinguishable in 
their water-proof casings in their Headquarters dug- 
out. "He was some boy," they murmured as the 
rifles crashed thrice across his grave. 

It's a square of white on a square of red. And 
in the center is a blue star. They are very proud — 
the houses that they adorn. The scarlet for the 
blood that we shed ; the white for the stainless pur- 
ity of our cause : the blue star — our star of hope for 
our loyalty — unswerving faith. Gentlemen! the 
Service Flag. 



53 



THEY WOULD NOT HAVE HIM 

They would not have him. 

All the long weeks of patient training and of eager 

work, 
His own firm loyalty to his country's flag, 
His record with his company that told the tale, 
Counted as nothing beside the examiner's curt 

verdict, 
They would not have him. 

In his too bright imagination he had seen 
The star shells burst above his own platoon, 
Heard his own voice call out its curt commands, 
Seen his own hand deal blows that brought down 

many a Hun. 
"What was the good?" he mused almost aloud, 
He'd offered himself, and he had been refused. 
He knew his comrades all were there — fighting for 

right, 
Fighting for justice — and he stayed behind. 
They would not have him. 

Yet the chance would come. 
Some day the call would be sent out again. 
Some day his name would come before the board 
once more 



54 



And all his hopes, his poems, his dreams at last 

come true; 
He'd have his chance to prove his loyalty, 
Shoulder to shoulder -with the nation's best. 
And if he were to fall, he'd do so smiling, 
Knowing in his joy — they'd taken him at last, 
They'd have him then. 



55 



A SONG OF VENGEANCE 

The night is dark, 

There is no light — no light! 

All the world is dark, 

The night is dark . . . 

It is no ordinary darkness, this. 

Even the moon trembles and hides her face, 

Pale, trembling moon, shivering behind warm 

clouds, 
I do not blame you. 

I, too, fear to look upon the sights you hide from. 
Yet I must do it — for I am a man 
And I must avenge! 
Revenge! Revenge! That is a word I never knew 

till now. 
Death and red blood seemed very distant once. 
I have known love. 
I have felt kisses soft upon my lips. 
I have felt bodies warm against my own, 
I have looked into eyes tender and lit with love, 
I have fought boyishly, half laughing as I did so, 
But this — this game of killing my fellow men is 

new to me. 
Still — are they my fellow men? 
That is a question difficult to answer: 
Are they my fellow men, these things, these Huns? 



56 



Partners all in a danse macabre of lusty killing, 

Rapers of women, 

Breakers of oaths, 

Butchers of babes — 

I doubt it. 

If these are my fellow men, 

Better the apes from whom they tell me I descend ! 

Yes, I will slay, and it shall be no crime, 

For in this darkness I can see the eyes, 

The eyes of virgins with their virtue robbed, 

The eyes of heroes treacherously stabbed, 

The eyes of hostages killed for their gaolers' 

pleasure, 
The eyes of murdered children, 
The eyes of boys who never shot a gun, 
The eyes of aged women and old men, 
The eyes of countless hundreds tortured to their 

graves, 
Those eyes call out for vengeance ! 
They whisper eagerly to me in the quiet of my 

room; 
They call out from the shadows when I walk 

abroad ; 
They gibber at me no matter where I go. 
Vengeance! They claim it as their due. 
Vengeance! It is their right, their wage. 
Vengeance! If it is not theirs, it is not God's. 
Vengeance! And we shall give it them. 



57 



Those murdered babes of wrongly sunken ships, 

Those crucified of Belgium and of France — 

They shall have vengeance. 

Coldly, quietly, almost with half a smile, 

We come, youths of the New World eager for the 

fray — 
They shall have vengeance, 
And we — we youths of the New World — we shall 

give it them! 



58 



SOMEDAY 
To H. S. H. 

Little girl I love with heart aflame, 

Will the times come back and be the same 

As before I took up war's great game? 

The shadows are thick round the barrack walls, 

Over the sound a curlew calls, 

On the roofs the white snow gently falls. 

There are no streets that gleam and shine, 
There are no heart beats close to mine. 
Hush! an organ near plays Auld Lang Syne. 

"Come back to your New London fields, come back 

to all your mist-filled dreams, 
Come back to all love surely yields, the meadows 

call you — and the streams. 
It's Barakeesh in flower tide — in summer tide — in 

flowertide. 
Come back to your own fireside, it's Barakeesh 

that's calling you. 
O Grenstone Town is close beside" . . . And yet 

the bugle ringing true — 
"Someday — " the bugle fiercely cried, "someday, 

you'll learn to love me too !" 



59 



Little girl who gave me your lips to kiss, 
Little girl whom I bitterly, sadly miss, 
I am keeping still my dream of bliss. 

The shadows are dark by the flagstaff bare 
And the moon wakes subtle shadows there; 
Khaki is black 'neath the pale moon's stare. 

Someday the flowers will bloom again; 
For blood will not be shed in vain, 
Flowers can only bloom through pain. 

"Come back to your dear city streets. Come back to 

all the things you know. 
Only when loved one loved one meets, is happiness. 

Why did you go? 
Come back to Barakeesh and love. Come back to 

voices soft and low. 
For there the sky is blue above. Oh boy — you 

didn't have to go!" 
But where the flag flaps in the breeze, he said, "I 

heard the bugle blow, 
It took me from my life of ease, I will come back, 

I had to go!" 



60 



TO THE MORNING-SUNRISE 

I was cold, but now I am so no longer. 

I was tired and ill, but now I am myself again. 

My feet were trembling and feeble, but now I 
walk with the captains and the leaders of men. 

For I have looked into your eyes and I have felt 
your lips on mine. 

I was afraid of many things, but now if you 
were to bid me open the door to death himself, I 
would smile and obey you. 

I was selfish and thought only of myself, but 
now it seems my sole duty is to accomplish your 
desire. 

Soon it may be that I shall go to my death, and 
because I know but little, death is strange to me. 
Yet I care not. 

For I have felt your arms about my neck and 
your hair has brushed against my cheek. 

Oh, my beloved, walk with me yet. Do not 
depart from me, for your eyes are as an untroubled 
pool from which no living thing has drunk. Your 
eyes are like an untroubled pool by moonlight. 

Oh, one to whom I have given my heart — do not 
.throw it away. For I am indeed most utterly lost 
if you do not keep my heart. 



61 



Though well I know it was very dirty and foul, 
through much rolling and gambolling in the mud, 
yet have you washed it. 

With your tears you have washed the mud and 
dust away. And with your fair white hands you 
have moulded it even into the shape of a true and 
loyal heart. 

I would speak of your hair even as I have spoken 
of your eyes, oh, my beloved, but words come not 
when I would speak of your hair. Yet because I 
love you — only God knows how dearly — I will try. 

Your hair is golden, and very soft and fine. It 
curls about the slender column of your neck in little 
tendrils and it shimmers with an allurement, with 
a very sweet allurement, so that I would fain press 
my lips to that golden hair, and keep them there a 
long, long time. 

My beloved, I am yours. Even though you close 
your doors against me, and your father's servants 
thrust me from the gates, yet am I yours. If your 
God is not my God, then will I forsake my God, 
whom I am loath to leave, for indeed he was a very 
merry God, a God of laughter and singing, of mai- 
dens and wine, yet will I leave him, and cleave unto 
your God. 

All that I have is yours, and I live but to win 
your smile. 

For you are my beloved, and I am your man. 



62 



IF YOU WILL TAKE THIS LIFE 

If you will take this life and build it up, 
Fill to the brim my happiness* clear cup, 
With your sweet strength I will the nobler be 
And some of your dear wealth infuse in me. 

Keep yet my hand. 
Do not release it. Let it still hold yours. 

Keep yet my heart. 
Do not release it. Wear it on your breast. 

Keep yet my life. 



63 



AFTER THE WAR 



After the War! 
After the War! 
After the War! 
After the War! 



How far away that seems ! 
The goal of all our dreams. 
Is that time near or far? 
Oh, happy distant star! 



After the War! 
After the War! 
After the War! 
After the War! 



And your lips find my own. 
And all our cares have flown. 
The world at last at rest. 
Hildreth, we'll build our nest. 



64 



FOR KING AND COUNTRY 

The king, he sits in his chamber high, 
With a hundred faithful courtiers by . . 
What matters it if the soldiers die? 
Tis all for King and Country ! 

Outside is heard the bugles' blare ; 
The band is playing a lively air. 
See how the burghers stop to stare . . . 
'Tis all for King and Country ! 

What matters it if far away, 
In the trenches, they're dying every day? 
While they're dying, hear them say: 
'Tis all for King and Country ! 

Over the wires comes the news, 
That this is a battle our enemies lose — 
But our men they die in the bloody ooze, 
'Tis all for King and Country ! 

The King, he smiles that the news is good ; 
His men are dying for lack of food — 
But it doesn't matter — when understood 
'Tis all for King and Country! 



65 



But for mothers who weep and for babes who cry 
And for girls who wait, and for men who die, 
Led to their death by a noble lie, 
There'll be a reckoning by and by! 

To be met by King and Country! 



66 



THE STAR 

Let us fight on. So let us always be — always. 
A smile on the face, the hand thus held outstretched, 
Eyes clear and head held high. Thus may we be, 
Thus ever. Let us fight on. Things changed we 

often see. 
Let's help to change them — not stand idly by 
In careless attitude. Let the world laugh or cry — 
What is it all to us? Ours is the fight. 
Ours is the nobler deed . . . nobler by far 
Because we gaze and, gazing, see a star. 
Who knows, we may soon find if it is there. 
Let's look. Only those find who looking seek, and 

dare. 
And the star found — let's share it with the earth 
And smile in sharing. There's too great a dearth 
Of gratitude and generous hearts hereby. 
Let's give and give and give until we die. 
We'll speak the truth and face things with a smile. 
Things are the better for it. Who knows, in some 

brief while 
All may be different — we the changers, too. 
We'll change the world together — I — and you! 



67 










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